


Beheadings in Dust Town

by thecryoftheseagulls



Series: Zeryn Brosca [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, She has a lot of anger, Zeryn goes on a murderous rampage, beheadings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to Orzammar, for Zeryn Brosca, brings out all the anger she's so carefully stowed away for so long. Alistair can only watch as Leske's betrayal sets in motion a lot of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beheadings in Dust Town

Alistair has heard a little about this Leske – mentions of the dwarf who was with Zeryn before the Proving, with her when she killed Beraht, at her side in following out Carta orders time and again. She has spoken of him casually, with a flippancy that surprised him, as though this other man was just an understood part of her life in Orzammar. Once or twice he had wondered if he should be jealous of Leske, if perhaps Zeryn felt something for him. But the way she talked, he thought they had to have been just good friends. (Part of him was still jealous that Leske could have been with Zeryn as her partner-in-crime – _his_ role now, if he was being honest – during a time of Zeryn’s life that Alistair could never know. But that was just silly.)

And the way Zeryn had greeted Leske in the streets of her old stomping grounds – bit shit-eating grin like the one she reserved for Zevran, mostly, and a rough slap on the back – he figured he had it right.

So when the thugs inside Zeryn’s old house said that Leske had put them up to it… Alistair had never seen Zeryn so angry. There was always this focused rage about her during battle. And, sure, she’d been on edge ever since they’d stepped foot inside this teeming, congested, dunghole of a city. But this? Alistair could only watch as she held her sword to the throat of the last remaining dwarf and made him talk. When he’d told them what she wanted to hear, she had reared back and struck the dwarf’s head clean from his body. Alistair had seen a lot of things now – Cailan’s body on a spike, dead and dying refugees, the endless mass of the horde in his dreams. But he wasn’t prepared for _that_ , the decapitation of an unarmed criminal in Zeryn’s living room, the sickening crunch of severed flesh and Zeryn’s face, unflinching, practically bathed in his blood. She’d knelt beside the headless corpse and cut his purse, then ripped part of the dead man’s shirt off to wipe the gore from her face. She had stood, dropped the cloth to the floor and spat.

“Looks like we have some Carta to kill,” she’d said in a voice as hard as the stone that surrounded them, and brushed past him.

Alistair shudders.

They had cut their way through dozens of dwarves to make it to the Carta’s leader – Jevaren, Jevia, whatever her name was. There was no stopping Zeryn, only keeping up as she led him and Zevran and Wynne through the tunnels. He wasn’t sure if it was Zeryn’s stone sense that guided her, or if these were the same tunnels through which she’d carved her escape in blood the first time. He didn’t ask.

And when they had reached the center chamber and found Leske at that woman’s side – well, if Alistair had thought she was angry before, she was livid now. She had raged and ranted at Leske, called him a coward and a backstabber and a host of other names. Alistair had wanted to go to her, to do something, _anything_ , to stop this madness. But Wynne had kept him back with a hand on his arm and Zevran had just stood there twirling his knives like he couldn’t wait for Zeryn to give the order for him to kill everyone in sight.

Then Zeryn had screamed, “That’s not good enough!” to something Leske had said, screamed, “We deserve something better than Dust Town and scrabbling in the filth of it just to make it through each day!” Those words are the ones that stick with him, the image of Zeryn in her blood-spattered armor, shoulders thrown back and murder in her eyes, declaring she deserved something _more_ than the life that had been chosen for her. Maker’s breath, he was terrified of her, but he could have kissed her right then, in front of everyone, because Andraste help him, she was blighted beautiful.

She had cut off Leske’s head, too - perhaps not intentionally, he wasn’t quite sure, but she’d swung Starfang with such force that his head rolled. Alistair had thought to make a joke of it _(My, my, awful lot of head-chopping we’re doing today, don’t you think? Must be a record: most heads severed at one go.)_ But the words had died in his throat when he looked at Zeryn. There was none of her usual mercy about her – truthfully, it had been gone the minute they’d stood before Orzammar’s gates and slaughtered that mouthy envoy of Loghain’s. The battle-lust had drained from her expression slowly when everyone was dead – that was what it was, the fury inside her, he could see it now – and her eyes turned hollow, lifeless. She’d turned, stumbled over her own feet, and Alistair had stepped to her side quickly.

“Zevran, make sure everything useful is looted,” Zeryn had said. “I need some air.” When Alistair touched her shoulder, she’d growled, “Don’t’ fucking touch me,” and stomped away.

And now…Alistair looks to Wynne, feeling helpless and angry. _Well done, Alistair, extremely well done. She just killed one of her best friends; of course she doesn’t want to talk to you right now. Idiot,_ he thinks.

The mage raises her eyebrows and says, “I think now would be an appropriate time to go after her, Alistair.”

“But I – she doesn’t want to – did you just see that? She yelled at me!”

Wynne puts her hands on her hips and Alistair yields with a groan under that stern gaze. He picks his way over dead bodies and follows Zeryn.

He finds her sitting on the stoop outside Janar’s shop, elbows on her knees, cleaning her sword with quick, angry swipes. _And now, to say something. Anything. Anything at all. But preferably something helpful. Not idiotic._

Zeryn’s voice, bitter, cuts into his thoughts. “No, Alistair, I don’t fucking want to talk about it, so you can fuck off, okay?”

“If I sit down, are you likely to stab me?” he asks.

“Possibly,” Zeryn says, not looking at him.

“In that case…” Alistair folds himself down on the opposite side of the steps, no easy task in his armor. “I’ll just…sit over here, then. Just to be safe.”

Zeryn snorts, not an amused snort.

“I’m…sorry about Leske,” Alistair offers, after a moment.

“So am I. Nug-headed bastard.” Her fingers slip on the rag she’s using to clean Starfang _(Not going to think about where she got_ that _one_ , Alistair thinks briefly) and Zeryn hisses in pain as she cuts herself on its blade.

Alistair scoots over beside her and reaches for her hand. She tries to pull away, but he pulls her back by the wrist.

“Zeryn, let me see,” he says quietly. When she relents, he turns her palm up to see blood welling from a cut near her thumb. It looks deep. He has nothing to bind it with, nothing but the blood-stained rag Zeryn has since dropped in the dust. Without thinking, he puts her hands to his mouth and sucks gently on the wound. Zeryn’s fingers twitch.

“Alistair!” she protests, sounding more shocked than anything.

He spits out a mouthful of blood and puts his lips back to the cut, repeating this several times until the bleeding starts to slow. He’s surprised to find Zeryn doesn’t pull away. When he stops, still cradling her hand in his much larger one, he says,

“There. Wynne can fix it the rest of the way when she comes out.”

Zeryn grunts and doesn’t respond. As the silence grows awkward, Alistair studies the hand she’s still not trying to take back. She has small hands like any dwarf, with broad palms and squat fingers. Her thumb muscle is huge and her grip thick with callouses from sword and shield. There are scars too – old nicks and cuts on her fingers and palms, not unlike the fresh one still bleeding sluggishly. He wonders how many are from similar accidents, what else they might be from. They are strong hands, quick and firm – he’s known her to pick a pocket with near the same mastery as Zevran. Which is impressive, because if anyone has fast fingers, it’s the elf.

Alistair bends his head and brushes his lips against her palm, on uninjured flesh. Zeryn catches her breath, her fingers curling so they brush against his chin. She still doesn’t pull her hand from his grasp.

“What was that for?” she asks him.

Alistair shrugs. “Don’t know. Just…wanted to, I guess. You have pretty hands.”

Zeryn snorts crudely. “They’re fighter’s hands, Alistair. They’re certainly not pretty. Pretty is dainty and pale and gentle and everything I’ve never been.”

He frowns (the particular frown Zeryn refers to as his pout), feeling put out, and mutters stubbornly, “Well, _I_ like them.”

Zeryn is quiet a long moment without protest, so quiet he looks up from her hand to her face to find her watching him with a crease between her brows. She chews on her lower lip.

“Well, you’d be the first,” Zeryn says when their eyes meet, and then she looks away.

Alistair smiles. Tries not to, of course; it’s not exactly the best time, but he does anyway. When she looks back and finds him giving her a dopey grin, she frowns blackly.

“Why are you smiling?” She tries to pull her hand away.

Alistair lets her go finally and covers his mouth with his hand.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be. Doom and gloom and we just killed a bunch of people and all that. It’s just…I’m sorry. But I have a hard time counting that as a bad thing.”

“What?” Zeryn asks, now looking just confused.

“My being the first. To love your hands. Bodes well for my chances, don’t you think?” He grins.

Zeryn watches him silently, without expression, for long enough that his grin starts to fade, before she scoffs lightly.

“Yes, I suppose it does.” With a sudden sigh, she leans against his shoulder. He hesitates, then wraps his arm around her. “This place smells like death and everything I ever wanted to run away from, Alistair,” she whispers. “There’s nothing for me here. I want to go ho— I want to go back to the surface. Small wonder you’ve been complaining this whole time. Dust Town is a fucking cesspool of futility and despair.”

“We will soon, my dear,” Alistair murmurs, resting his chin on her head. “Bheren – Brennen – what’s his name –“

“Bhelen.”

“ – Bhelen will be pleased we’ve cleared out this lot. Hopefully he’ll agree to honor the treaties and we can head back to Arl Eamon.”

“I hope so,” Zeryn says in a small voice. “Fire and blight, I hope so.”

**Author's Note:**

> More random drabbles about Zeryn and Alistair, and general sobbing over Bioware characters can be found at my tumblr, thecryoftheseagulls.tumblr.com.


End file.
